


Benst Friend

by Celia_and



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Ben is in love with his best friend Rey, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Law School, Minor Finn/Rey (Star Wars), Not Actually Unrequited Love, One Shot, Pining, Too bad she's getting married tomorrow, no infidelity, or is she?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25682863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and
Summary: “My Benst friend,” she had called him, one drunken night in law school, and it stuck. She loves him with a best friend love. But he still has time—he can still find the words to tell her his whole heart is hers.After all, her wedding isn’t until tomorrow.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 65
Kudos: 553





	Benst Friend

**Author's Note:**

> This delightful moodboard was made by the lovely [@Desertflower221](https://twitter.com/Desertflower221) on Twitter! 💛

They’re sprawled in her hotel room after the rehearsal dinner: her on the couch, him in an armchair. She’s half lying down and her dress is hiked up, like it doesn’t matter if he sees her like this. Alone. In her room. With a bed barely ten feet away.

Because he’s her friend.

She fiddles with the hem of her skirt. “You’ve never really told me. What you think about Finn.”

He clears his throat. “Sure I have.”

“No you haven’t.”

“He’s...swell.”

 _“Swell?”_ she laughs. “Okay, 1920’s gangster.”

“He’s really top notch.”

She sits up all the way.

“Seriously, Ben, tell me. With real words an actual human would use.”

He looks just over her shoulder at the gilded wallpaper, not directly in her eyes. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters.”

“You’re marrying him tomorrow.”

“I’m aware.”

“So it doesn’t matter.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. I still care what you think about him.”

“He’s great, okay? He’s a great guy.”

“You make it sound like an insult.”

“It’s not.”

“Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not.”

“We’ve been best friends for six years, you think I can’t tell when you’re mad?”

He looks down, which was a mistake, because his eyes come to rest on her bare feet. Her toenails are painted a glossy dark red. Some bridesmaid must’ve insisted that it was indispensable.

She hates pedicures because they scrape off her calluses. He wonders if Finn knows that about her. He wonders if Finn likes her calluses. (He wonders how it’s possible to like every single thing about someone, even the things you can’t stand.)

He looks up at her. “I’m not mad. It’ll just be different, tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

“Between us. You’ll be married.”

“So?”

“So it won’t be the two of us against the world anymore. You’ll have Finn for that.”

“But I’ll still have you,” she insists. It’s half a question.

He doesn’t answer.

“I’ll still have you,” she repeats, with less certainty, like the prospect of him not in her life is just now presenting itself to her for the first time and she doesn’t know what to do with it. “Right?”

He looks at her disheveled hair and her hesitant expression and the way that one strap of her dress is slipping off her shoulder and he answers honestly. “I don’t know.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she demands, suddenly belligerent. She’s never more beautiful than when she’s angry.

“It means I don’t know.”

“Yes, I understand the fucking English language. What do you _mean?”_

Is this it? The culmination of years of waiting, hoping, scraping together crumbs of courage into a little pile?

_I’m in love with you._

“It’ll just be different.”

“What the fuck, Ben? What the hell kind of thing is that to say to me? To _me.” To your best friend_ , she doesn’t say, but he hears anyway. _To the someone you’re supposed to be entirely honest with._

He looks around the room, like he’ll find the right words lurking somewhere. His eyes fall on the clock on the bedside table. 12:03. She’s not getting married tomorrow. She’s getting married _today._ He takes a deep breath. “I can’t keep being part of your life in the same way.”

“Why not?” He can’t tell if she’s more hurt or angry, because she disguises hurt as anger. He hopes Finn knows that. Because when she’s hurt she doesn’t think that she needs people, but she does.

(Ben always needs her.) “Because you’re getting married.”

“Okay is it just me, or are we doing some sort of ‘who’s on first’ bit right n—”

“I’m in love with you.”

He cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth. Not because they’re not right and true and inevitable, but because they don’t belong here in this hotel room, hours from her pedicured forever with someone else. Their place was years ago in her apartment, or his. They’re too late. But he can’t do anything about it now because they’re out in the open, suspended over the hotel room coffee table.

She stares. “What?”

“I’m in love with you.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“Why would you say that _now?_ Ben...” She swallows hard. “I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“You’re getting married today.”

She glances to the clock, and it confirms the truth of his words. Her voice drops to a deadly whisper. “Oh, fuck you.”

There it is. Exactly what he expected. What he deserves. It’s a comfort, in a twisted way—he’s never done anything right, so why should this be any different?

“You think you can just—just sit there in your fucking suit and wait until it’s 12:05 on my wedding day and say—” Her hands ball into fists in her lap. “Say _that?_ What, did you wait for maximum dramatic impact? It’s not a movie, Ben! It’s my life! It’s _your_ life! _Why?”_

His voice is quiet. “I wanted to, before. I didn’t know how.”

Her sarcasm bites. “Well it seems like you did a pretty good job just then, huh? What was it...” She counts on her fingers. “I’m, in, love, with, you— _five_ words. Was it really so fucking hard?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t tell you before because—”

“No. Why was it so hard to say it? If you really l-love me?” Her tongue hesitates on the word.

“Because you’re getting married today.”

“Ben, I swear to God, if you say those words one more time—”

“Because you’re perfect. You’re too good for me, by miles. And if I couldn’t have you,” he swallows thickly, “in that way, at least I could have your friendship. But there was still the hope, for more. Even though I told myself it was stupid. And this is it. The end of the line.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“You’re an _idiot.”_

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m getting _married_ today.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to marry Finn.”

“I know. You should.”

“What?”

“You should marry Finn. He’s a genuinely good person. He’s kind and caring and loyal and he’s fucking crazy about you, Rey, and I don’t know much about marriage but I’m pretty sure that’s how you do it right.”

“I love Finn,” she says, and there’s a kind of pleading in her voice that he’s never heard before, not in all the years he’s known her voice.

“I know.” His voice is gentle. Because if this reassurance is one of the last things he ever gets to do for her, he needs to do it right.

She wrings her hands and looks down at the carpet. “I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“How long have you—”

He won’t make her say it again. “The whole time. Since I met you at the start of law school. Or maybe a couple days later.”

 _“What?”_ She seems...disproportionately shocked. She’s staring at him wildly. “Then why did you reject me?”

He must be going crazy, right? That’s the only plausible explanation for his ears telling his brain that the words _reject me_ just came out of her mouth. _“What?”_

“In 2L, at that party, when I tried to kiss you and—”

“You were drunk, Rey.”

“I wasn’t drunk, I’d had five drinks over four hours and you know I can handle a drink and a half per hour before I...” She trails off.

They stare at each other.

His voice is low. “You didn’t say anything, after. I assumed...”

“Neither did you. I assumed, too.”

He has to take a minute, to rearrange his entire mental picture of his life.

“Well, we did it,” she says, with a gritted-teeth semblance of calm. “We loved each other at the same time. Isn’t that great.”

It’s not great. “Anyway. I love you. That’s why I can’t keep being your best friend.” He keeps it together until the last word, when his voice breaks. He’s never cried around her before, not in all six years. He’s always feared that if he lets himself be too emotional in her presence, she might somehow guess the secret of his heart.

Well, the secret is out. So he cries.

The tears don’t slow, and he stands and tries to turn to leave so she doesn’t have to watch this. Not on her wedding day.

She must’ve stood up at some point, because she catches him by the wrist with both hands. She doesn’t let go. He stands turned half away from her and sobs.

It takes a while for him to notice that she’s stroking his wrist with her thumbs. Over the cuff of his shirt, like a friend. Because they’re friends, or they were until he just made what was possibly the worst mistake of his life and _God,_ what will he do without her?

When he can breathe he wipes his eyes sloppily with the heel of the hand that she’s not holding and says, “You’re getting married, today.”

She doesn’t answer.

He looks over at her. She’s still holding onto him, looking down at his hand.

Maybe she didn’t hear him the first time. “You’re getting married today.”

She looks up at his face. Are those tear tracks on her cheeks too? “What if...” She takes a deep breath. “What if I weren’t?”

“No, Rey, fuck, don’t do this. You’re getting married to Finn and you’re going to be so, _so_ happy.” (It probably would’ve been more convincing if his voice hadn’t broken again on the second _so._ ) “That’s not what this was. It’s not a movie, remember?”

She doesn’t answer. She looks at him, silently studying his face.

He goes on. “I’m in love with you, but don’t worry, I’ll get over it—”

She interjects quickly. “Will you?”

“No, but...” He sighs and kneads his temple. He needs to do at least this one single thing right. “It’s not a movie,” he repeats helplessly.

“I know it’s not a movie,” she says, letting go of his wrist. “If it were a movie I would fall into your arms and tell Finn the wedding is off and marry you instead. I’m not doing any of that.”

“You’re not?”

She smiles gently. “No.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s good, Rey.” His heart breaks, but at least it’s too quiet for her to hear.

“I can’t get married today. But I’m not going to cancel the wedding. I’m going to postpone it. If Finn will agree.”

He looks at her and hears words like _postpone_ and wonders if he’s dreaming. Those are tear tracks on her face after all. She’s almost close enough to kiss.

“Why?” It’s the most important question, the _only_ important question.

“Because I need to think.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my life. And I need more than twelve hours to have this information before I marry someone.” She turns away. “I need to talk to Finn.”

Ben should leave, but he can’t yet. “He’ll agree, you know. If you ask him to postpone. He’ll say yes. And you shouldn’t.”

She evidently opts to ignore the last part. “You don’t know that he’ll agree. I know him better than you do. He’s a proud person. In a good way.”

Ben smiles sadly. “I know him better than you think.”

She looks up, startled. “What do you mean?”

“We both know what it’s like to be in love with you. And if he would give up any chance to be with you, now or later... well, he just wouldn’t. I know.”

She’s silent for moments on moments, looking at him. Finally she says, “Do you not want to be with me?”

_“What?”_

“Was this just some noble self-sacrificing gesture, to make sure I knew that you were relinquishing me and planned to be miserable for the rest of your life?”

“No, Rey, that’s...no. Fuck.”

“No you don’t want to be with me?” Her tone is combative, but the hurt lurks right underneath.

It staggers him—the idea that she doesn’t know. She doesn’t see that he would give his life for two minutes in her arms, so imagine what he’d do for a whole lifetime. “Yes, I want to be with you.”

“Do you?” she prods.

“Rey. The only two things standing between me and showing you exactly how much I want you are this coffee table and the fact that you’re engaged.”

Her sharp intake of breath isn’t quite a gasp. It should be. He wants to make her gasp.

The bed is too close, suddenly.

There’s a universe of wanting that opens to him. Like someone pulled back a curtain and he’s seeing sunlight for the first time. Because what if she could love him, and not as a friend? What if that was a thing that could exist in the world?

“I need to talk to Finn,” she says unsteadily. “And I need to think.”

He nods, once. He turns to go, but stops with his hand on the door handle. “You’ll be happy either way. Because both of us would do anything in the world to make you happy.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“What?”

“Being with someone who wants to make you happy, that’s not enough. Because what if you’re in love with someone else?”

She’s talking about Finn. She must be. Because she’s in love with Finn. “If you marry him today instead of postponing, you won’t have to get another pedicure.” She looks at her feet. He looks at her.

“It was worth it,” she says. He has a strange feeling that she’s not talking about the pedicure.

He opens the door and steps out. She catches it, stops it from closing.

“Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think I should do?”

_Be with Finn._

“Be with me.”

She looks at him. He wonders if it’s a goodbye. He thinks of what he could’ve said better, done differently. _So_ many things. But he’s nothing special. All he has is a wrinkled suit and dried tears on his cheeks and love.

She closes the door. He goes back to his hotel room. He packs his things. He goes back to his life.

A month goes by. He waits to hear when their new wedding date is. He looks at vacation rentals in Alaska.

Another month passes. He buys a potted plant. It dies.

Life isn’t a movie. If it were, she’d come to him in some blaze of romantic glory. She wouldn’t ring his doorbell at 11 at night with a backpack of clothes, red rimmed eyes and a nose stuffed from crying.

If life were a movie, she’d have a line much more dramatic and profound than what she actually says, between sniffles.

“I thought about it. I love you. Okay?”

He doesn’t answer, unless you count his hands in her hair and his mouth on her mouth. It’s wet and it’s messy, and she’s hasn’t set the backpack down and she’s still crying but that’s okay, because so is he.

They stand there for too long, until she gets the hiccups and he can’t stop crying and they’re a mess, two full messes, and there’s nothing to do but laugh, so that’s what they do. And he finally slides the backpack off her shoulders and carries it in one hand as he leads her inside, and they sit on the couch where they’ve sat a thousand times before and she leans her head on him and cries some more, because it’s not a small thing, to stop loving someone.

They don’t have sex that night. They sit and talk and he feeds her orange juice and stale Doritos. She can’t stay awake long enough to shower, so she just pulls her pants off and gets in his bed and grabs his hand to kiss it sleepily when he wraps his arm around her. She hogs the sheets and drools on his pillow.

And on a different day, there’s another white dress in the closet and there’s no gilded wallpaper, there’s just him and her and a courthouse and her calluses.

She was right. Life isn’t a movie.

It’s better.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m doing much of my writing on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/celiaand2) nowadays; please feel free to come visit! 💛


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